


Return to Spring

by tapdance_in_a_teacup



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOWAR, F/M, feyre at the spring court, how it should have ended, night court only appears right at the end, sorry tamlin, the suriel deserves the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 18:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tapdance_in_a_teacup/pseuds/tapdance_in_a_teacup
Summary: Tamlin's perspective on Feyre's return to the Spring Court, deviates from ACoWaR plot after she disappears.





	Return to Spring

It had all gone to hell so quickly for Tamlin. He had schemed for so long that when Feyre was returned to him it felt wrong, he was living his fantasies trapped in some ghastly mirror world where everything was as it should be, but not quite. Of course, he knew it would take time for her to heal, he had to fight the snarls that rose inside him and clench his fists to stop the appearance of claws every time he caught her scent. What that prick had done to her… To his Feyre… 

Because she was his, she had always been his and no ‘superior’ claim Rhysand tried to make would change that. He had found her first, had wooed her and cared for her and protected her as much as a human could be protected from Amarantha. The High Lord of Spring restrained himself for Feyre’s sake, consoling himself with the knowledge that the mating bond forced upon her was broken, that she was his. He could not, would not, lose her again. It would take time, but Feyre would heal, and the moment he was certain it would not give her cause to fear him, when she ceased to flinch at the slightest movement or raised tone, he would add another set of Illyrian wings to his collection.

Progress crept along at a painful pace, but he watched her closely, had others watch her covertly so she didn’t feel smothered by his constant surveillance, and slowly but surely she was beginning to take an interest in life at the Spring Court. Although the thought of her going out into the forests on excursions to the wall galled him, he knew this freedom was the price of keeping her, he would not make the same mistakes twice, and Feyre truly was returning to her old self. Even her friendship with Ianthe was on the road to repair, he knew it could not be easy for either female, Feyre found it difficult to forgive Ianthe for how her kin had been caught up in our rescue, which stung for the Priestess, who had sacrificed so much to bring Feyre home to him.

Ianthe had been a true friend to Tamlin and the saviour of the Spring Court, when Feyre’s absence sent him into fits of rage and despair Ianthe had stepped up and ensured the Court was governed so efficiently none of his subjects could for a moment have suspected the weakened state of their High Lord. In the lead up to Calanmai he had sought her counsel as a personal friend to himself and to Feyre. When her soothing reassurances that Feyre would understand, that it was his duty to his Court and nothing more failed to subdue the bile that snaked up his throat at the thought of touching another, Ianthe had selflessly volunteered to go forward in his place. She always put her duty to Spring before her personal feelings which was why he entertained her initial distrust of Feyre upon her return. The High Priestess was concerned Rhysand might still have Feyre in thrall, that she may be reporting back to his Court of Nightmares. Her worries, although they came from a place of pure intent, were entirely unfounded, Feyre was content – she was painting for cauldron’s sake!

He had allowed himself to hope, allowed himself to become complacent, that was why the shock hit him so hard when Ianthe returned alone from the wall, half falling off her horse with a tearstained face and mangled hand. She had been collecting wood while the others made camp, when they were betrayed by those despicable incestuous Hybern twins, in the commotion she had fallen and her hand became trapped between two rocks, by the time she freed herself the twins were dead, but Feyre and Lucien were missing. At the news Tamlin could contain himself no longer, thirty minutes later he had a gap in his memories and a destroyed sunroom, but such aimless destruction did nothing to quell the roaring in his head. He had a purpose, a direction for his anger, she was his female and he would find her. It was time to hunt the Suriel.  
He spent days in the forests setting trap after trap, when he turned his back on the final trap, not bothering to dismantle the evidence of his failure, Tamlin’s first stride for home was interrupted by a rasping voice.

“So quick to abandon hope, High Lord?”

The Suriel was stood casually in the middle of the trap, looking for all the world like it had sauntered in out of banal curiosity. Tamlin had no such pretences of apathy, days of built up rage boiled over as he launched himself at the Suriel, pinning it in to the dirt.

“WHERE IS SHE?” he growled through bared teeth, “You know who I am and what I’m capable of creature, now tell me. Where is my Feyre?”

For one in such a vulnerable position the smirk the Suriel donned was absurd, as it smarmily suggested that perhaps the High Lord would like to ask another question, since his Feyre was a figment of his imagination and he would never find her in the person of Feyre Archeron.

“So you know where she is?”

“All this time stumbling through the forest High Lord, did you ever stop to think it was I who was hunting you?”

A cold chill washed over Tamlin as he realised too late, his proximity to the Suriel meant he had no room to manoeuvre, fixed in place as the long talons of the Suriel stabbed into his back over and over until there was only pain. Yet in his last moments his entire body was numb as the parting words of the Suriel registered.

“My High Lady is exactly where she needs to be. With her mate.”

 

When delivering the news in Velaris, Azriel kept a wary eye on Feyre, but it was Mor who turned white at his words.  
She spoke rapidly, a great urgency tumbling from her mouth.

“Legend has it that if a High Lord dies without issue, his power transfers to his killer.”

The spymaster was the first to process what she had said, “Does that mean…?”

Rhysand smiled, “The Suriel is going to need a new cloak for its Swearing In Ceremony.”

**Author's Note:**

> This came about because one of my friends kept asking for spoilers (she's saving ACoWaR until after exams) so we started to tell her the most ridiculous things we could think of to see what she would believe. 'The Suriel inherits the Spring Court' was my personal favourite and I really felt like it needed to be written (sorry Tamlin, you had to die for this to work).
> 
> I may end up continuing this into an 'Incorrect ACoWaR spoilers' series over summer because we came up with some cracking ones but I make no promises since this is my first time posting fanfic online and I'm scared!!!
> 
> Huge thanks to lapses_of_time for talking me into posting this, you're the best!!!


End file.
